Devil and a man
by Science-project-failure
Summary: Through centuries of existence, Erik and Charles have found each other, lost each other and found each other again times and times. This is the story of two vampires bound by the strongest bound there is; fate. This is the story of how they came to be.
1. Prologue

He must be no older than twenty-three. At least, he doesn't look older than twenty-three. He has the face of an angel. Always wearing that chipper smile, red red lips, prominent canines, he draws people in. His blue eyes, an unnaturally pale shade of blue, are always wide open in exaltation. It makes him look young, _innocent_. He's no taller than five foot eight, nine maybe. He looks like a boy, dark brown hair short on the sides, longer on top, cropped like a gentleman, tousled like he's been outside for too long. In the night, no one seems to notice neither the eerie pallor of his skin, nor the coldness of his touch. His playful smile brings warmth and a hint of fear into the hearts of the ones it strikes. Oh, but he looks so young, so pure. His glistening white teeth clash with the redness of his lips; he's a modern Snow White, by the looks of it. He lures the people, mostly older men, with his boyish charms and flirty eyes and a nasty _nasty_ tongue.

And then he kills them.

He drinks their blood until his porcelain face is stained crimson. He sinks his teeth into flesh. He plays with his meals. It brings him glee. It makes him laugh.

He may look twenty-three, but he's quite older than any dirty old man he feeds from. In fact, he may have seen them born, wearing the same face for centuries.

He's a creature of Bacchus, wild and promiscuous, sexual and deadly. He answers to the night and drinks the wine of men as well as the wine of their hearts. The shade doesn't differ much and the effects are nearly the same. They say he looks like an angel. He is a devil.

The Devil always wears white at a wedding but he'll wear red at a funeral.

He charms by his looks, yes, but not his looks alone. He can entrance you, as soon as you lock eyes. He can make you want, he can make you despise, he can make you quiet, he can make you _scream_. His thrall is powerful; he knows what you think at all times.

He's old, _very_ old.

And so very _dangerous_.

His features are carved in stone, graver than the grave although as handsome as Apollo himself. This man is cold, made of steel unbinding. He looks twenty eight, maybe older. His expression is too serious to decipher and too hard for a man his age. He hunts like the wolves, discreet and stealthy. He sees no passion in the emotions of men. He does like to study pain though.

There are things that bring a spark to his pale green eyes and a quirk to his lips, things like blood and pain. He studies the decay of humans, the blindness of them all. He watches them lie, make war to one another, _rape_, _kill_. He delves into the inhumanity that composes humans. He finds it amusing still that women, and men alike, throw themselves at his darkness like animals. They helplessly rut against him like a horny dog would his master's leg. Despite his icy allure, he possesses a kind of pull, for steel _is_ magnetic. His hair is short, cropped close; it makes him look harsh, military.

They call him _Stahl Mann_; _Man of Steel_. His heart, dead in his chest, bends for nearly nothing. He claims to love a deep love for one thing though his lack of a pulse does not bid in his favour. Besides blood and death, he loves one thing only.

He loves the Devil. The one true Devil that, though may seem warm and welcoming, is in fact cruel and vicious. He loves the tyranny of this being, of this other damned child he pursues his fate with. The Devil has a name, this name is Charles.

And the _Stahl Mann_ has a name too, it is Erik.

Legends claim that to every race, every breed of living creatures, even dead ones, there is a desire stronger than will to another being, a link so strong that it binds the two together in every realm, whether life or death, heaven or hell.

Rare are the ones who can find this true love, this _mate_, as we'd call it. Men have renounced to their privilege of love, stooping low for riches and power. As they say, the hearts of men are easily corrupted. A human can never love fully. The crimes of passion and proofs of devotion are but euphoria and delirium, slowly seeping through the brains of oblivious people. Free from the _gift _of humanity, creatures that were once men can finally feel true turmoil, true passion, true _love_. And it is _pain_ and _impulsion_ that drive those creatures to sadism.

Why blood, why death? Because it's what they _are_. Why pain? Because it's what they _feel_. How love? Because it's what they _long for_.

Charles found Erik in a creek, half dead, bloody and disgusting. He could have killed him, drank his blood for all he cared. But he _cared_. He thought of an easy prey at first, hunting war fields for the blood of battle. He will never fully comprehend why it was that man that caught his eye, invaded his senses. When he found him, he did not turn him. He nursed him back to health, studied him. He grew a few years with him, saving his worth at dangerous times. A proud Celt. They grew to love one another, separated by death. Erik grew a few years into his skin, Charles remained unchanged. One day, Erik grew tired of slipping away from his love. He begged for the gift; Charles gave in, reluctant. He felt himself drain the life from his beloved, the sweet nectar of his veins, sweeter than any he'd known. He could hardly pull back. He hated himself at first, stealing the heat from his cheeks, the beat from his heart. But when Erik awoke, he saved Charles. He wiped the tears away, kissed a cheek, nipped a tongue. He drew blood, Charles laughed. All was well with the world now. Erik understood more than ever what it was to love. He could never be separated from Charles, it would kill him. At one point, he thought Charles dead; found him weak. He killed hundreds that night. Charles reassured him, petted his hand, graced him a smile.

"I'm not dead yet. I don't intend to be."

And Erik cried his first immortal tears, flowing freely like he was back to being a boy. Charles explained that if really had died, the pain would be unbearable for not only was he is mate but was he also his sire. It would be the kind of pain that would make you tear one of your own limbs off to quell it and drive a stake through your own heart just a second too late.

Once again, he was eternally thankful for Charles and for the fact that he was his.

TBC


	2. March 1769

**Weeeee! Finally decided on updating! So I've thought this should be a fragmented timeline story so I'll write the date before every entry :) thanks for reading!**

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><p><strong><em>March 1769<em>**

France had been... rich. Charles and Erik had learnt much in the ways of orgies with the libertines and had seen how romanticized it had been by everyone. The people looked old because of opium or turned blind and crazy because of lead. The young died young, all for the sake of exploring one self. The thing one did not know is that this kind of exploration is impossible for a mere human being. The youthful "Jean-Baptiste"s or "Justine"s were lost to the inevitable decay of mortal life. And the uppity high-class men sneered at the "sodomites" when they themselves engaged in such gay activities. Half the male nobility of Paris walks with a limp. Umph.

Charles was reminiscing his time in Paris. All the poets and actors and musicians had been swell but the parties had been attended by high class trash. Charles was disgusted.

He adjusted his cravat in thought of the better place they would lay foot on soon. Charles looked like a perfect noble gentleman.

He and Erik had set sail for Italy once again in their best suits to partake in the well known masquerade balls of Venice, a thing they had yet to discover. They heard the wine was quite good, and the blood, quite virgin. Also, such events were perfect places for a vampire; masks, alcohol, probably drugs, women, men, etc. These people could behave even under those circumstances, Charles was thankful. But still, to set foot in Italy so soon after a pope's death was a challenge.

Charles was tired of France and all those powdered wigs and old women trying to look like Marie-Antoinette. Erik, still a Celtic warrior in his heart, was tired of all those men dressed as women, fat and pathetic against one another who complain, powdered like whores.

Italy was much stronger, much more proud. At least, that's how it felt. And the exotic population was quite visually enjoyable.

The women had lean waists and full breasts and beautiful dark hair. The men were tan, tall and hard edged. Of course, they were no match against the full six foot two of a Nordic Erik. Six foot alone, at that time, was very tall.

Of course, like nearly everywhere, there were rich old fat noblemen that weren't all that noble. There were disgusting thoughts all around those ballrooms. What was even better was the religious blood. The other night, Erik and Charles paid themselves a young priest, drinking and corrupting him. He was left weak on the steps of his church with no memory, only feeling.

Charles had stained his beautiful white cravat.

Later in the night, Erik took care of staining more than that.

During the day, Charles and Erik would sleep a bit; laze around in their room, curtains closed. Sometimes, Charles would get up to write and Erik would wake in the process. He could gaze at his beloved writing novellas or updating his journal for hours without batting an eyelid.

After a while, Erik would get paper and a piece of charcoal and he would sketch. He would sketch Charles, sometimes in positions and situations that never happened or simply haven't happened yet. He would draw the things he wanted to do to Charles, the things he dreamed. Then he would get up, show them to Charles without a word and Charles would understand. If he still had a pulse, in these moments, a violent blush would creep up to his features. Erik's imagination was wild enough to imagine it. After all, following a good meal, Charles' cheeks and lips were always sinfully red.

Recovered from their activities when the dusk set in the sky, Erik and Charles settled for finding masks to wear at Baron Giordano's ball. A merchant in one of the drier streets of Murano sold beautiful Venetian masks for a meagre price. Charles took a black and burgundy silk one while Erik decided for a dark green and black velvet one to match with his jacket.

Back to their hotel room, they had started getting ready. Dressing up fast and neatly because of their supernatural abilities, the task was over in less than two minutes. Charles had put on a black and red jacket with a maroon waistcoat, dark breeches, a white shirt, white stockings, black leather shoes and a white cravat. Erik wore a deep green velvet coat, black waistcoat, dark breeches, a white shirt, white stockings, black boots, a white cravat and a black top hat.

Charles and Erik had hitched a modest sandolo to reach their destination. Like all parties, it started in the evening, around seven hours in the afternoon. The party had not yet started to rise when Charles and Erik made their entrance but the Baron was there, talking animatedly, and some people had pulled their masks down.

The two vampires made their way to the Baron, passing the waiters carrying hors-d'oeuvres.

"_Saluti, amici! La notte è ancora giovane!_" The Baron went to shake their hands.

"_Infatti lo è._" Charles answered with a smile.

"_E vi è abbondanza di vino per andare in giro, ne sono sicuro_." Erik added.

"_Sì, sì! Vino e cibo! E proprio tra voi ed io, ci sono un bel paio di camere al piano superiore._" The Baron said with a wink.

They laughed and talked a bit more and then, they shuffled with the crowd. That was precisely when Erik caught a scent. It was a scent he knew. It was a scent he recognized on rape victims in Switzerland. Usually on little boys. He knew that the man had escaped his clutches when he found out his partners in crime's heads falling one after the other. He did not know that this man had simply passed south of the mountains. He focused on the scent and tried to reach the conversation it was having with his enhanced hearing.

Erik was boiling. The only thing he liked about humans was the children. Children were like bread dough, not yet baked, still innocent and malleable. Once the dough was baked, the bread was finished, set forever in its shape. Children were cruel, yes, but children were pure. They were the only reasonable human beings, even when they were not. All else was rubbish.

For worse it be a human that soils this purity, those same humans who treated them as monsters.

Charles picked on Erik's thoughts since he was projecting quite loudly. What he saw was a man he hated with a passion; the one man he hadn't crossed off his list in Switzerland.

"He's got a daughter." Charles concentrated.

"Hmm?"

"She's in the main room, the west wing; the other children are asleep or playing in the bedrooms."

"Why would she be there all alone?"

Charles pressed two fingers to his temple.

"She doesn't like Duce Evano's boys."

Erik chuckled.

"She's about four, her name is... Vivien, if I'm right."

"Oh?"

"I'll go play with her."

"Don't traumatise her too much, she is but a child."

"Don't worry, she won't even notice."

They left the ballroom and started striding the corridor leading to the west wing where the main room was.

Charles walked towards the main room with a mischievous smile on his face. Erik watched him blankly and joined him. Charles saw the little girl in question play with her dolls as a maid looked after her fondly. Erik settled for a corner near the stairs where he wouldn't be noticed. As Charles entered the room, wide eyed and smiling, the maid looked a bit baffled.

"_Siamo qui per la palla._" Charles said towards the maid. Comprehension suddenly appeared on her face and she nodded fervently.

Charles looked back to the little Vivien on the floor.

"Hello, Vivien." Charles had crouched down to the little girl with a warm smile on his face. She could not understand Charles' English but she did recognise her name.

"Did you know your dada rapes little girls your age?" Charles cooed.

Vivien, a frown upon her very young features at not understanding a word he said, looked at him still, silent.

"He does! It's true! Sometimes, they get passed on between him and his... _business friends_." The maid in the corner grew wary though she could not understand much more than young Vivien could.

But Charles, tone warm and soothing, went on, like he was talking about something else entirely, something _pleasant_.

"He rapes little boys too. He thinks I don't know..." He tapped his temple gently with two fingers.

"... But I know." He finished with a smile. Vivien laughed; in her head, it was but a foreign young man saying and doing silly things. How she was wrong.

"You know what?" Charles took Vivien's small hands in his.

"I've done a clever thing. I've killed off all his _business friends_ one by one. He's last, and he _knows_ it." Vivien thought they were sharing a secret; she leaned in with a smirk matching Charles'.

"Now, _andare a dormire, piccola Vivien_." That she understood, _Italian_. She nodded her head fervently and ran to her maid; the same maid that was looking at Charles funny.

Charles and the maid crossed sight; suddenly the maid's expression grew blank and doubt erased itself from her mind.

"Italian suits you, Charles." Erik walked out of the shadows.

"Why thank you, though it is a bit rusty." He answered back with a chuckle.

"That little girl, she really likes you."

"I'm going to murder her father, I'm not sure she'll still like me then, unless I Oh!―"

"What?"

"I'll make her forget him. Before I kill him, I'll make her forget him. I'll make _everyone_ forget him."

"Brilliant."

"You know it."

"You are a dark little thing."

"I am not a thing, I am a prince."

"You can be _my _thing." Erik said with a lascivious drawl.

"And I can play with your _thing_."

"That was bad, Charles. But oddly arousing." Erik pointed out with a look of ponder on his face.

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><p><strong>OKAAAAY. So that was it (I hate how I ended it X( ), continuing it in the next chapter, same time though I will write the date. In the meantime, here's a little preview:<strong>

_The most perfect thing had happened, that night. They had met vampires, others like them. It was a small coven, three women and two men, Estonian gypsies that had been turned some hundred years ago. Erik had discovered them upon smelling blood in the large ballroom, turned to one of the small booths around the mezzanine to find a beautiful Esmeralda sucking the life of a busty young Sicilian lady sensuously._

_Oh! The irony of everything that in a place where you are anonymous, you find one of your kind, a kind that is extremely rare, mind you. _


End file.
